A long, long time agoI can still remem­ber how that music used to make me smi­leAnd I knew if I had my chan­ceThat I could make tho­se people dan­ceAnd may­be they’d be hap­py for a whi­le

But Febru­ary made me shi­verWith eve­ry paper I’d deli­verBad news on the door­stepI couldn’t take one more step

I can’t remem­ber if I criedWhen I read abo­ut his wido­wed bri­deBut some­thing touched me deep insi­deThe day the music died

So bye, bye, Miss Ame­ri­can PieDro­ve my Che­vy to the levee But the levee was dryAnd them good ole boys were drin­king whi­skey ‘n ryeSin­gin’ this’ll be the day that I dieThis’ll be the day that I die

Did you wri­te the book of loveAnd do you have faith in God abo­veIf the Bible tells you so?Now do you belie­ve in rock and roll?Can music save your mor­tal soul?And can you teach me how to dan­ce real slow?

Well, I know that you’re in love with him’Cau­se I saw you dan­cin’ in the gymYou both kic­ked off your sho­esMan, I dig tho­se rhy­thm and blu­es

I was a lone­ly teena­ge bron­cin’ buckWith a pink car­na­tion and a pic­kup truckBut I knew I was out of luckThe day the music died

I star­ted sin­ging bye, bye, Miss Ame­ri­can PieDro­ve my Che­vy to the levee But the levee was dryThem good ole boys were drin­king whi­skey ‘n ryeSin­gin’ this’ll be the day that I dieThis’ll be the day that I die

Now for ten years we’ve been on our ownAnd moss grows fat on a rol­lin’ sto­neBut that’s not how it used to beWhen the jester sang for the king and queenIn a coat he bor­ro­wed from James DeanAnd a voice that came from you and me

Oh, and whi­le the king was looking downThe jester sto­le his thor­ny crownThe cour­tro­om was adjo­ur­nedNo ver­dict was retur­ned

And whi­le Lenin read a book on MarxThe quar­tet prac­ti­ced in the parkAnd we sang dir­ges in the darkThe day the music died

We were sin­ging bye, bye, Miss Ame­ri­can PieDro­ve my Che­vy to the levee But the levee was dryThem good ole boys were drin­king whi­skey ‘n ryeSin­gin’ this’ll be the day that I dieThis’ll be the day that I die

Hel­ter skel­ter in a sum­mer swel­terThe birds flew off with a fal­lo­ut shel­terEight miles high and fal­ling fastIt lan­ded foul on the grassThe play­ers tried for a for­ward passWith the jester on the side­li­nes in a cast

Now the hal­fti­me air was swe­et per­fu­meWhi­le the ser­ge­ants play­ed a mar­ching tuneWe all got up to dan­ceOh, but we never got the chan­ce

‘Cau­se the play­ers tried to take the fieldThe mar­ching band refu­sed to yieldDo you recall what was reve­aledThe day the music died?

We star­ted sin­ging bye, bye, Miss Ame­ri­can PieDro­ve my Che­vy to the levee But the levee was dryThem good ole boys were drin­king whi­skey ‘n ryeAnd sin­gin’ this’ll be the day that I dieThis’ll be the day that I die

Oh, and the­re we were all in one pla­ceA gene­ra­tion lost in spa­ceWith no time left to start aga­inSo come on, Jack be nim­ble, Jack be quickJack Flash sat on a can­dle­stick’Cau­se fire is the devil’s only friend

Oh, and as I wat­ched him on the sta­geMy hands were clen­ched in fists of rageNo angel born in HellCould bre­ak that Satan’s spell

And as the fla­mes clim­bed high into the nightTo light the sacri­fi­cial riteI saw Satan lau­ghing with deli­ghtThe day the music died

He was sin­ging bye, bye, Miss Ame­ri­can PieDro­ve my Che­vy to the levee But the levee was dryThem good ole boys were drin­king whi­skey ‘n ryeAnd sin­gin’ this’ll be the day that I dieThis’ll be the day that I die

I met a girl who sang the blu­esAnd I asked her for some hap­py newsBut she just smi­led and tur­ned awayI went down to the sacred sto­reWhe­re I’d heard the music years befo­reBut the man the­re said the music wouldn’t play

And in the stre­ets, the chil­dren scre­amedThe lovers cried and the poets dre­amedBut not a word was spo­kenThe church bells all were bro­ken

And the three men I admi­re mostThe Father, Son and the Holy GhostThey cau­ght the last tra­in for the coastThe day the music died

And they were sin­ging bye, bye, Miss Ame­ri­can PieDro­ve my Che­vy to the levee But the levee was dryAnd them good ole boys were drin­king whi­skey ‘n ryeSin­gin’ this’ll be the day that I dieThis’ll be the day that I die